


All That Sam

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Fluff, General Dumbassery, Humor, M/M, Magic, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean thinks of himself as an innovator. A sex god. A professional problem solver. And then Sammy gets hit with some hoodoo and all of that shit gets shot straight to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean considered himself a problem solver. A creative thinker.

Hell, on a good day, he was the freakin’ Steve Jobs of hunting: dynamic, innovative, not afraid of taking chances, of trying something new. Of approaching a problem from a different angle, one that gave him a distinct perspective all his own.

Yeah, ok, it was the end result that mattered. Sure. But it never hurt to get there with some style. Some panache. With a touch that said: Dean Winchester was here, you evil fuck, and that’s why you’re dead. Because of me.

And yeah, that attitude had gotten him in trouble. Once or twice. Never a good feeling when a demon knows your name, like some hellspawn version of Norm or something, but hey. Having a rep was a good thing—hell, if just his name could get some sick son-of-a-bitch monster to hightail it without a fight, then it was worth it.

So, when you came down to it, Dean had a reputation to maintain. As a man with a plan, one that might be a little out there—a little unconventional, sure—but one that you could count on to get the job done.

And, all right, Sam might make an assist every now and then: an intuition, an ancient incantation, even a shot or a punch or a grab. Fine. But even Sammy knew whose name it was up in lights, whose name it was that rolled before the title.

So there was more than a little pride at stake whenever Dean had to ask for help. When he was forced to, his arm twisted by circumstance and frustration and when he had no other choice, goddamn it. Because he was going—

“Going fucking nuts here, Bobby,” he hissed into the phone, ducking into the cereal aisle.

“Oh, wait,” Bobby said. “Let me get a piece of paper and mark down the damn date cause, gee, boy, this is a historic fucking occasion. Damn, you and your brother driving each other crazy? Wow. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Dean huffed. “You done?”

Bobby snorted.

“Look, I know it doesn’t sound like much, ok? But I’m telling you, something is really wrong, and I haven’t been able to find anything that might explain it, and Sam has been like zero help here, so I was hoping you could—”

“So he’s talkin’ about cows.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “like, all the goddamn time.”

“And how long’s this being goin’ on?”

Dean gritted his teeth. “For two whole days! And he won’t. fucking. stop. It’s like he can’t shut it off, or something. Like this morning, he went on a 20-minute tear about the gestation cycle of a gurnsey or a jersey or something, includin’ a detailed damn description of how one of those things gives birth which, I’m telling you: the stuff of fucking nightmares, man.”

There was a long pause.

“Dean,” Bobby said, finally, his voice grave. “Look. Let me be straight with you. We have to prepare ourselves for the possibility that Sam—”

Dean cringed.

“—wants to be a big animal vet.”

“What?!” Dean shouted, backing into the Fruit Loops.

Bobby started laughing. “I wish I coulda seen the look on your face—!”

“Jesus, Bobby! C’mon, this is serious!”

“Yeah,” Bobby managed, “he may want you to be his assistant! Ya ever done CPR on a calf, boy?”

“Hilarious,” Dean scowled. “You’re a freakin’ comedian.”

Bobby’s grin practically beamed through the phone. “Relax. Seriously—he’s talking about cows? That’s it? This is either the lamest haunting in the history of haunts or your brother is just fuckin’ with you. And hey, what do you know? It’s working.”

Dean bared his teeth at Tony the Tiger and got a death grip on the phone. “For his sake,” he growled, “there better be a ghost rattlin’ around in there. Or the world’s dumbest demon. Otherwise—”

“Uh huh,” Bobby said. “I hear you, Chuck Norris. Just keep an eye on him until I have a chance to look into this.”

“Have a chance?!” Dean yelped, starling a nice-looking chick bent over the Muselix. “C’mon! This is an emergency! I can’t—”

“Oh really?” Bobby drawled. “More urgent than a vampire nest in Albuquerque? Or than some kinda man-eating deer up in Michigan? Or, I’m sorry, you’re right, a goddamn cow obsession is way more dangerous than the poltergeist outbreak in-“

“Ok, ok, Bobby, god,” Dean muttered, embarrassed. Pissed at himself all over again for giving in and calling for help. “Fine. But as soon as you can, ok? I don’t know how much more I can take of this crap.”

“Yeah, yeah, cry me a river, sunshine,” Bobby sighed. “In the meantime, why don’t you try to distract him, or something? Put somethin’ besides cows into that giant noggin a’ his. Give him some new material to chew on.” Beat. “So to speak.”

“Huh,” said Dean. “Can’t hurt.”

“Right,” Bobby said with a yawn. “You do that. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

“A couple of days?!” Dean squawked, but Bobby had already hung up.

**

The funny thing was, it had all started with pigs, not cows.

They’d stopped at some hole-in-the-wall out west of Raleigh for Carolina barbecue, the kind of place that had Dean practically weeping with joy just from the smells in the parking lot. Sam, of course, was not physically capable of appreciating the complete and utter beauty of pulled pork slathered with slippery, greasy sauce and covered in coleslaw. He spent the whole meal looking disgusted and kind of ill but damn, Dean had been in heaven. Just floating there, dreaming over his sweet tea and kind of reveling in Sam’s wrinkled nose and the building bitchface.

Yeah.

But then Sam had perked up, suddenly, eavesdropping on the loud-ass people behind them who were going on and on about some upstanding local citizen who’d broken into like 20 cars in the last two days before being caught in the Wal-Mart parking lot, claiming he had no memory of what he’d done and no clue as to why he’d stolen enough AAA maps from people’s gloveboxes to wallpaper his house.

 _Tsk, tsk_ , they’d said, shaking their heads and reaching for the biscuits. _His wife was just in here last week. Well. Just goes to show you never know really anybody. You never really know what’s going on upstairs until one day he throws open the attic door and lets it all hang out_.

Dean couldn’t have cared less, was too in love with the peach cobbler to give a damn, but Sam was interested and Dean was too blissed out to put up a fight and so they’d spent a couple of days digging into it, interviewing the totally clueless guy and his wife, casing his house and the town and coming up with pretty much jack.

A gigantic waste of time. Except for the three straight days of barbecue, which had been just about perfect.

It’d made Dean a little nostalgic, actually, for this little place in St. Louis: a diner with burgers straight from heaven, a glimpse of utter bliss. He’d waxed and waned about those burgers, god, earning an eye from the waitress and double heavy sighs from Sam. But whatever. Good food made Dean happy, no matter what the circumstances.

Even if the case they were working was stuck in park.

Even if he had to watch Sam scowl across the table as he pushed butter beans around his plate and tried to make Dean feel guilty, which he totally did not, because how often did they get a chance to eat like this? Especially three days in a row.

But then, almost as soon as they hit the city limits, Sam had started randomly yammering about cows. And not just your average Wikipedia stuff either, but like crazy in-depth and completely random info, like the typical weight and size of the things, by breed. Their sleep cycles in the Southern hemisphere. The relative nutritional value of their milk for their calves and for humans. The history of mechanized milking. The cultural significance of the longhorn in the American West.

And on. And on. And on.

“Where the hell did you learn all this stuff?” Dean’d made the mistake of asking, that first day.

Sam had rolled his eyes, puffed out his chest.

“Dude,” he’d said. “I did go to Stanford, you know.”

Which made absolutely no fucking sense, because Dean was pretty sure that animal husbandry wasn’t part of pre-law, but hell, it was California, so who the fuck knew what they made you learn out there, or what Sam had managed to cram into his head in four years, but good goddamn! Did it get annoying really, really fast.

After 12 hours, Dean was completely exasperated.

After 24, he was thoroughly pissed.

After 36, he was on the edge of a murderous fucking rage, because it didn’t matter what they were doing, or what they were talking about, or where they were: Sam just would not shut the fuck about the damn cows already, even when it was totally inappropriate, even when it made everybody else uncomfortable and made Sam look looney tunes.

Like at dinner the previous night, when Sam had gone medieval on the waitress because Dean’s cheeseburger had come out too rare, still bleeding a little, which was the way Dean liked it, honestly, but he never ordered it that way because it always freaked Sam out.

But Sam had blown right the fuck past freaked out and camped out in crazy town.

“Haven’t you heard of e-coli?!” he’d shouted, leaping up, glaring down into the waitress’ face. “Or mad cow disease? There’s no way you cooked this to 175 degrees! And where did this meat come from? Huh! I bet you don’t even know how this poor cow died!”

Aaaand it’d been all downhill from there, Sam getting redder and more sputtery by the second, the manager marching out and threatening to call the cops, until Dean had grabbed Sam by the collar, thrown him out the door, and booted him into the car—the idiot still hooting about unsafe meat handling practices.

He’d kept her over 70 until they were well out of town. Just in case.

And still, Sammy would not stop with the goddamn cows.

And this morning, Dean had finally reached his breaking point after a 30-minute monologue on cows’ relative intelligence as compared to other members of the ovine genus that even Iron Maiden at full blast hadn’t stopped, couldn’t even fucking slow down, damn it.

“Sam!” he’d bellowed. “Stop it! What the hell is wrong with you? We haven’t even seen a fucking cow, dude!”

Sam had scoffed. “Of course not,” he’d said, as if Dean was a complete idiot. “We’re in an urbanized area here. And the grass is all wrong. And even if it weren’t, it’s still not warm enough to—”

And even Dean’s screaming hadn’t shut him up.

So Dean had pulled in to a Piggly Wiggly, planted Sam in the produce section, and run away to the cereal aisle to call Bobby. To plead for help.

And what had he gotten for his troubles?

A total lack of sympathy and the awesome implication that he was a self-centered dick.

And no help.

**

Dean stomped back to the bananas where he’d parked Sam.

But, awesomely, Sam wasn’t there.

He turned, stretched, swiveled. Peered over the stacks of apples and the bruised peaches but yeah, no Sam to be seen.

But then he heard it: that whiny, bitchy, lecture-y tone that drove him up the wall on a good day drifting up from the back of the store.

Crap.

He marched towards the back, following the noise, and the butcher, for one, did not look amused.

“No, really!” Sam was yelling as Dean stormed up. “Are you sure that these cows were slaughtered ethically? I mean, the industrial meat complex has a long history of violating the most basic standards of—”

“Hi,” Dean barked. “We’re leaving.” He grabbed and started dragging before Sam could protest and they were halfway down the soda aisle before Sam managed to yank himself free.

“Hey!” he shouted. “What the hell, Dean?”

“Dude, you’re being an ass. Now c’mon. Let’s go.”

Sam opened his mouth. Dean got right in his face, hissing.

“You say another fucking word about cows or meat or milk or the lactation fucking cycles of heifers in the Northwest and I will gut you myself!”

Sam rocked back, blinking, and Dean grabbed the advantage, hooked his brother and tugged him outside into the sun.

Sam scrambled in, kept his mouth shut while Dean slammed his door, jammed the key home, and turned them back onto the main road.

Dean steamed, shook the steering wheel with his fists, and cursed Bobby’s total inability to see how fucking serious the whole thing was.

But, sure, it was easy for him to laugh it off, wasn’t it? Bobby hadn’t had to put up with two full days of Encyclopedia Sam and his Bovine Chronicles. 48 hours of gurnseys and jerseys and bull sperm counts and calving and feed cycles.

Two days of 4-H on speed.

Which. What the hell?

He sighed. Tried to enjoy the quiet while it lasted.

The silence did something nice to his head, freed up his brain a little. Enough to think through what Bobby had said. Enough to have an idea. A creative one, even.

He needed to put something else in Sammy’s head, huh? Really.

Something overwhelming, preferably. Something that would kick everything about cows right the fuck out of Sam’s head, for good. For Dean’s good, anyway.

Ha!

Hell, he deserved a little something, too. As a reward for not murdering the gigantic bastard and throwing his body in the nearest ravine.

Ok, a little too violent in the imagery there. He was a little tense. Clearly, he need to blow off some steam. So this? Was perfect.

He leaned back and grinned.

“Sammy,” he said. “How many ones you got on ya?”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Dean woke up and remembered, oh yeah: he was a fucking genius.

Because Sammy? Was cured.

Because Dean? Had cured him.

All it had taken was one night of good ol’ fashioned American nudity and state-sanctioned cock-teasing and bam! Cow obsession? Gone.

Granted, it’d probably cost them like $300 or something, but it was worth it just to have sat next to Sam for a few hours and not have heard a goddamn word about bovines.

Which, given the circumstances, was doubly great, because it’d meant they hadn’t gotten tossed out of the club for pissing off the dancers.

Dean had followed the signs on the highway, the big gaudy ones with soft-focus faces, and the promise they held was enough that he’d been able to tune out Sammy’s play-by-play of a lactating heifer’s digestive tract.

He’d found the place by sunset and yanked the cow boy inside, dropped him in a chair and made the rounds. Found a brunette for Sam, a redhead for himself, and installed them all in a private room for, oh, not nearly long enough, in his mind. But long enough to get the job done.

The brunette, it seemed to him, had given Sammy plenty to think about. Yeah. Every time he’d looked over—which, admittedly, wasn’t that often, as he was pretty fucking happy himself—Sam’s face had looked all soft and swimmy and like totally, completely overwhelmed, his eyes kind of melted and dark.

[Which? Come to think of it. Was a little weird. How come he’d been able to see Sammy’s eyes? Shouldn’t they have been fucking locked on the dancer’s gorgeous, heaving—?]

Whatever. Details details.

The important part was: the stupid bovine-obsessed ghost or spirit or whatever? Busted.

Apparently, beautiful women barely dressed were the visual equivalent of salt and fire. Awesome.

Yeah. Dean Winchester: innovator. Creative thinker. The Steve Jobs of—

There was a weird noise coming from the bathroom.

He frowned and rolled over, leaned his head towards the door.

Huh. It was more like two noises, really: one regular and almost rhythmic, the other low and ragged and guttural and—

He froze. Clutched the sheet in his hands and fucking froze.

No water running—not even the damn sink.

No other sounds except for—

Except—

Oh jesus.

Except for Sam—god, he hoped it was Sam—coming like a fucking freight train less than three feet from his head.

Dean was shocked. It was kind of a new feeling.

Because this? Was like majorly disrespectful on so many levels. Not the least of which was breaking the guy code of at least running the fucking tap so that the other dude has plausible deniability. So they both could pretend that Sam had been brushing his teeth or something and not—

Jesus.

Sam swam out of the bathroom, humming and grinning and reaching for his backpack.

Dean sat up and glared.

Sam didn’t notice. Just went about getting dressed, whistling away like a fucking Disney dwarf.

Fine.

“Hey, Slappy!” Dean barked.

Sam turned, his fingers working through the buttons on his shirt.

“Hey,” he said cheerfully. “You’re up early. Did I wake you?”

“Did you wake—?!” Dean spluttered. “Oh, you mean, did you wake me up by jerking off right next to my goddamn head? Why, yes! Yes you did, Sam.”

Sam frowned.

“Oh, c’mon. It wasn’t that loud. Jesus. You make more noise than that when you dream about that place in St. Louis. You know, the one whose cheeseburgers make you all weak in the knees.”

Dean tensed, waiting for it, waiting to see if the cow thing came back with a vengeance, but—

But Sam just buckled his belt, reached for his shoes. Let sleeping cows lie.

Of course he did. Because Dean? Was a freaking genius.

“Dude!” he managed. Innovatively. “At least turn the shower on or something. I don’t need to hear you whacking off first thing in the morning!”

“Really?” Sam said, curious. “When do you need to hear it?”

Dean stared at him. “What?!”

Sam rolled his eyes and stood up. Headed for the door.

“You know, for someone who prides himself on being such a sex god, you are such a fucking prude sometimes,” he huffed, slamming the door behind him.

Dean gaped. At the doorknob. At the window. At the ceiling. Fell back and covered his eyes.

Ok, well. This was at least marginally better than discussing the chemical makeup of cow spit before breakfast. At least a little bit.

Wasn’t it?

They were on the road by 9, Sam acting more or less like normal, Dean still pissed and a little freaked out. Because Sam? Was like the most repressed dude he’d ever known. And private.

Dean couldn’t remember that last time he’d heard Sam—whatever. Like, even as a kid, he’d been fucking fastidious about jerking off: quiet, concealed, totally mysterious. Didn’t want to talk about it, even.

So this? Was weird. Maybe even weirder than the cow thing.

Still, maybe it was a one-off. A holdover from the night before. Because that brunette had been hot, and despite all evidence to the contrary, Sam was human.

Yeah. That was probably it.

Sure.

They drove south all day, headed for the panhandle of Florida, and Sam didn’t say a single damn word about cows or anything else barnyard-related. There was just the regular back-and-forth between them, bullshit and bitching and general dumbassery.

Yeah. Everything was fine.

So, by the late afternoon, Dean let himself relax.

He was spacing, deep in his favorite driving trance. The music just loud enough, the wind warm and sweet, the road basically empty. It was just him and his baby and the road unrolling beneath them.

Happiness. This was it, for him.

And then his brain kind of dimly registered a disturbance in the Force, or something.

A noise that didn’t belong.

And then Sammy sighed, low and rolling and totally out of context and—

He looked over and oh shit. Slappy the dwarf was back.

“Sam!” he shouted, pinning his eyes to the road, trying not to panic. “Goddamn it! You can’t do that in the car!”

“Why not?” Sam said, like his voice was rolling through quicksand. “You have sex in here all the time.”

“Not during the day! And not with you in the car! With you driving!”

“Mmmm,” Sam slurred, “that would be nice.”

Dean’s head snapped over instinctively and oh Jesus god. Bad idea. Back to the road back to the road back to the—

“Sam!” he heard himself squeak. “Dude! Seriously, can’t you wait until we stop or something?”

“Why?” Sam said, and Dean could just hear that sneaky grin. “D’you wanna help?”

“No!” Dean shouted, squeezing his eyes shut. Then remembered that he was behind the wheel. In the middle of an interstate. At five o’clock in the afternoon.

Sam was laughing at him.

“Perfectly natural, Dean,” he breathed. “S’what you told me, ‘member? It ‘s all perfectly natural to—oh—”

And his breath caught and he moaned, this full sound that rattled his chest. That shook the goddamn seat.

Dean bit his lip, hard, kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, and started cataloguing the ways he was going to kick Bobby’s ass when this was all over. Fuck vampires. And the damn poltergeists could go screw themselves, because Sam—

Was really getting worked up now. Was getting pretty damn close, and holy hell, why couldn’t he develop spontaneous, defensive deafness or something? Goddamn it.

“Oh, Dean,” Sam panted. “Dean, oh, goddamn it, Dean, fuck, I—oh—”

And his breath hitched again and Dean’s head turned without his fucking permission and he saw Sam’s face arch and drop and sigh as he came all over the goddamn upholstery.

Dean shot daggers at the damn road. Resisted the urge to put his head through the windshield. Because what? In the fuck? Was that?!

Then Dean felt Sammy dig back into the seat with a sigh and, ok, no, no fucking way was he just gonna—

He opened his mouth to yell, looked over—and Sam was already asleep, dozing away with his fly open and the seat sticky and a huge fucking grin on his face.

Fuck. Fuckity fuckity fuck.

When he pulled over for gas around sunset, he kicked Sam in the leg as hard as he could and made him zip up his pants.

“God, Dean,” Sam bitched in return. “You’re such an ass.”

“I’m an ass?! Who spent the last two hours baking in his own spunk? In my car?! Not me, buddy.”

“Aw,” Sam said, reaching for him. “Is that what’s wrong, honey? Do you feel left out?”

“Shut up!” Dean growled. Slammed the door behind him and pretended not to hear Sam laughing at him.

The worst part was that Sam didn’t see any of this as a problem, as strange in the damn least, even after Dean refused to let him into the room that night until he cleaned the fucking front seat, Dean feeding him towels and a bottle of Windex which, admittedly, did not do an awesome job, but it was all he’d been able to talk out of the girl at the front desk.

Sam just scrubbed and laughed and threw the dirty towels at Dean’s face, which totally gave Dean rights to the first shower because, yuck.

When he came out, Sam was perched on the edge of his bed, smelling like a window washer at a strip club.

And Dean had promised himself that they weren’t gonna talk about it, were just gonna pretend this horrible afternoon had never happened, but goddamn if Sam could keep his fucking mouth shut. Of course he couldn’t.

“Dude, I don’t know why this bothers you so much,” he sighed, standing up and stretching like a cat. “It’s just a natural bodily function.”

“Yeah, a—function that left a fucking mess in my car!” Dean managed, yanking on a clean shirt.

Sam met his eye and grinned. “Ok, ok,” he said. “I promise. I won’t jack off in the car anymore.”

“Ew!” Dean said, grimacing. “Man, come on. Please! Enough already.”

Sam took a step towards him, still smiling. “But you know how it is. Sometimes the urge strikes you and you can’t—“

“No!” Dean yelped, “No, I do not know what the hell you’re talking about! I can control myself—unlike some people, apparently.”

Sam threw up his hands, chuckling. “Fine,” he said, sliding towards the bathroom. “From now on, I’ll only jerk off in the shower.”

“Sam!”

“Or under the covers when you’re asleep.” He grinned wickedly. “When I think you’re asleep.”

“Ok, you are officially fucked up in the head, dude. Shut the fuck up about it already!”

Sam ducked into the bathroom, laughing, and Dean made a point of turning the TV up as loud as it would go. Just in case.

After his shower, Sam fell into bed, his face a giant yawn, and he was asleep before Dean could turn out the light.

Dean rolled into the sheets and let his ears soak up the quiet. Tried to relax.

But the quiet let him think again and, well. He wasn’t real happy about that.

Because he couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—Sam was right.

Maybe he was the one with the problem.

He ducked down and pulled the covers over his head. Listened to Sam’s breathing, slow and steady, an arm’s length away.

Maybe Sam was just, you know, going with the flow or whatever, like Dean was always telling him to.

And maybe, for Sam, that flow was telling him to freakin’ yank his cock out at every opportunity, which? Given all the shit that they’d been through in the last few months—hell, in their whole damn lives, when you got down to it—this new little kink of his was pretty damn harmless, all things considered.

Weird? No doubt.

But who was it hurting, really? Sure as hell not Sammy.

And what about him? Because how many years had he been throwing his prowess into Sam’s face, giving him the gory details, even when Sam howled and plugged his ears and told him to shut the fuck up about it already? Which, hey.

Now he kinda understood that feeling.

So maybe he really was becoming a prude in his old age, which, ok, fine. Not as groovy about sex and stuff as maybe he liked to think, as maybe he’d told himself he was, once.

But still. Prude or no, whacking off in front of your brother—in the middle of the day! in the goddamn car! where other people could see you!—was weird, ok? No question about that. Very very weird.

And so not Sam-like.

Which was what made the whole thing a little disturbing, maybe, made it feel like Sam wasn’t the one driving his own fist at the moment.

Which was made it interesting, too. Intriguing.

No. No. No! Ok, no fucking way. No. Slam the door on that thought right now, goddamn it.

He curled up, pushed his fists into his eyes.

Not interesting. Weird. Creepy.

It’s not interesting, ok? It’s weird. Fucking bizarre and upsetting and oh, shit. His cock just did not agree with that sentiment.

He shook his head, tried to talk himself down.

Repeated it to himself like a mantra: it’s weird. Creepy. Wrong.

It was maybe a little hot, all that wrong.

All that Sam.

And goddamn it, now he sounded like a fucking romance novel, not that he read romance novels himself, but he might have been with a girl or two or did. Might have stolen one from Cassie and hidden it under the front seat of the Impala after he mocked her for it, cracked the spine at the good parts and spent the better part of a day trying to figure out the logistics of a particularly vivid three-way and oh god oh goddamn it.

Come on!

Really?! brain? Really? he shouted inside his head. This is where we’re going with this? This is what we’re gonna do when there’s all this bad in the world, all this evil and we’re the only ones who can fight it and instead you’re gonna write Sam’s name in a notebook and draw hearts around it in your head and dream of his cock in your fist, his mouth dark and wanting [dark and wanting?!] under yours and his hands on your face, in your hair, planted on your thighs as he—

Goddamn it!

Dean turned over, turned away from Sam. Pointedly ignored his cock and burrowed into the blankets. Cursing Sam because it was all his fucking fault, whatever this shit in his head was. Sam had put it there. Not him.

His knuckles bumped the knife under his pillow and no. Tempting, but no real good play there. Stabbing Sammy would probably feel satisfying at first, to watch the blade sink into his body, to see his body open up and take it, take all of it, take everything Dean could give him—

Fuck!

He hit himself in the head with his fists, which kinda hurt but it broke that chain of thought nicely. Snapped it the fuck in two, thank you very much.

He slept. Eventually.

His dreams were full of knives and the sweet hitch in Sammy’s breath when he came.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, things got ugly fast when Sam got off once in the shower and then again in the room while Dean was under the spray.

And Dean didn't wanna know that. Hell, he'd have done almost anything not to find out, but fuck, was Sam loud about it, and damn if he didn't have a filthy mouth, and holy hell! was Dean tired of mixing turned on with freaked the fuck out.

Especially at 7:30 in the morning. Jesus.

He left three messages for Bobby before breakfast, moving from polite to pleading to frantic.

“Please, man, tell me you’ve got something!” he wheezed, ducking behind the ice machine. “You gotta help me out here.”

And any reluctance he might've felt, once, laying it out on the line like that— admitting he couldn't handle something on his own, handle Sam—it was all busted, left out in the dust with any sense of decency Sam had left, with any semblance of pretending Dean had clung to. All of it was pretty much gone.

He wanted Sam. Whether it was the freaking ghost or hoodoo or whatever, or maybe it was all him, he had no clue. But at some level, it didn't matter what the fuck it was, or why, or how. He couldn't escape it, couldn't run away fast enough from his head or his cock to break free.

He _wanted_ Sam, for Christ's sake, and Sam was doing everything but tying a bow around his neck and stretching out under a damn Christmas tree, offering himself up like that.

Well, not exactly offering, but putting the goods on display in a way that was creeping, staggering, stumbling awful close to some imaginary line in Dean's head and it was starting to scare him, a little. How much he wanted to cross it.

So he packed all that shit away, one more time, glued the cell phone to his hand, and dragged Slappy and his magic fist to breakfast.

And he knew it was bad—that he was—when even strawberry pancakes couldn't make him smile. Couldn't block out the sound of Sam's voice, the fucker, moaning Dean's name as he came, which he totally had no right to do, haunted or not, and which Dean had even less right to really, really love. To want to hear again, right now, even as he poured coffee down his throat and wondered if he could just open a vein, rip a hole in his heart and just pour the shit straight in.

He was exhausted even after his fourth cup, and watching Sam grin like an idiot at the waitress, the busboy, the old ladies who walked by and waved, and generally be all relaxed and shit made it even worse. Made Dean feel even darker, even more like the little black raincloud at table 3.

"Dude," Sam chirped, so cheerful that Dean woulda bet cartoon bunnies were about to fly out of his ass. "What is your problem? You look like you're trying to set me on fire with your mind." All of this with a big fucking grin, like the world was made of ice cream and Sam had the only spoon.

Hell, maybe his dick could double as a spork at this point.

"'M fine," Dean gritted. "Just need more coffee."

Sam sang out for the waitress, who came bustling right over, beaming, and it was so much like a Disney movie that Dean tried out that firestarter idea, just for a second, staring right between Sam's eyes and envisioning flame. 

But of course it didn't work. Of course not.

He wrapped his fingers around his phone, deep inside his jacket, and prayed to Bobby to drag himself out of the whiskey bottle or the ancient Babylonian porn or whatever it was that was keeping him from doing his fucking job and call Dean back already! God. What in the hell was taking the man so long?!

He started to wonder if he shouldn't just drive the fuck to Michigan and throw himself to the man-eating deer.

And then the phone jumped to life in his hand and hallelujah and amen.

He scooted out of the booth, waggled the phone in Sam's face, and pointed outside, because Dean was not an asshole, right? And Sam nodded like a happy bobbing bird and finally, finally, Dean heard Bobby's reassuring wheeze and yeah, maybe he wouldn't end up deer bait today after all.

Cue awkward and terrible conversation.

“He's doing what?!” Bobby barked.

“Yeah, exactly,” Dean sighed. “Welcome to my world, man.” He leaned back against the driver’s side door, trying to mould his body to his baby’s frame. For strength, or something.

“So let me get this straight: He’s moved from recitin' excruciating details of cow-related minutia to—jerking off around the clock?”

“Yeah.”

“In front of you?”

Dean winced.

“Well, not always in front of me. But pretty fucking close.”

“Huh,” Bobby said, thoughtful. "Now see, that's interesting.”

“How is that ‘interesting’?” Dean groaned. “It's fucking disturbing, Bobby, is what it is. Downright bizarre.”

“Well,” Bobby said, and Dean could hear him flipping pages. “Maybe not—I think there’s something that might— Hold on a second.”

Dean heard the phone drop and laid his head back. Resisted the urge to bang it into her roof. Because Jesus god, only Bobby would say "Interesting" about something as weird as this, like he was a supernatural kind of Spock, like Dean's life and Sam's stupid cock were just a series of equations to be solved, computations to be run, that when added together would equal—

“Well,” Bobby said again, his voice ghosting back over the line. “Ok. I think I got something for ya, kiddo.”

“Awesome,” Death breathed. “What do I hafta do?”

“You're not gonna like it."

“Listen, I don't care if I like it or not! Just tell me what the fuck I'm supposed to do here, I'm—!”

“Well," Bobby said. Calm. "I'm pretty sure it's a spell. Not a spirit."

“Ok,” Dean sighed. “Spell. Not awesome, but hey. I can deal. But—” he held his breath for a beat, let himself taste hope. “Is it one that'll wear off on its own, maybe?”

“No. I don't think so. If it was, it'd woulda already. Those things have a pretty short shelf life."

“Huh. Ok."

There was a pause, and Dean was pretty sure it wasn't his go.

"You gonna share here, or are we gonna play this like Mad Libs?” he howled. “How the hell do I de-hex Sam?” and he could hear the whine in his voice, the desperation, and if it were anyone but Bobby he might actually give a shit, but he needed help, and he knew it, and so he wanted it right. the fuck. now.

“Oh,” Bobby said, all casual like. “Sam ain't the one that's been spelled on, boy. It's you.”

“Me?! I'm not the one who's been—!”

“I know, I know, ok? But look: you got hit with a spell by somebody with a sick fucking sense of humor. I think it's something called an níos mó ná—“

“A what now?”

Bobby huffed. “A níos mó ná, jackass. A magic of excess. It takes what you love and throws it right back in your damned face until you're sick of it, until just the sight of it makes you fucking nuts.”

Dean’s heart did a high-jump into his throat.

“W-what?” he managed.

"The spell, it latches onto stuff that you can't enough of, shit you practically adore, and—"

“And rubs your nose in it 24X7,” Dean finished weakly.

“Right. Until you go a little blotto and never wanna see whatever that fucker is again. Sorta like: be careful what you wish for. Because you’re really gonna get it.”

Dean felt the color fall out of his face. “So, cows,” he said.

“Well, burgers, I'm guessing,” said Bobby. “But yeah.”

“And…Sam.”

“Yup.”

Dean let his brain chase over that for a while, but it came back empty-handed.

“So,” he said.

“So,” Bobby echoed. “When you took him to that strip club, you didn't kill the spell. You just—gave it some fresh ammo, is all. Gave it something else to torment you with besides the fucking cows. Something else that you, ah, adore.”

Dean buried his face in his hands.

“Shit.”

He stared himself down behind his eyes and so did not think about looking at Sam, at the club, about watching him with the brunette on his lap and thinking about what it would feel like to have Sam's hips tucked between his knees. His hands in Sam's hair, like hers. His mouth hovering right over Sam's face, teasing, not touching, watching Sam reel, wide-eyed and stunned and so turned on that Dean would feel that gorgeous cock cutting into his thigh as he swayed in Sam's lap, those long fingers caught in his belt, Sam's lips moving, his tongue peeking out and promising that if Dean would lean down, just a little, they could—

God, no. He totally didn't think about that, just then, with Bobby in his ear and Sam just a stone's throw away, out there in the middle of the day. No.

Didn’t think about the way Sam had caught his eye, in the club, had seen Dean staring, and for a second, Dean'd let himself think that maybe he wasn't crazy, that maybe Sam wanted it as much as he did, wanted Dean to kiss him and stroke his neck and swallow his cock until they were both stupid with it, with each other, in a way they'd never been before, a way maybe they were supposed to be, but—

But then redhead had caught his cheek in her hand, seeing her dollar bills slip away, maybe, and turned his head, turned him back from that long, slippery slope of Sam. She'd purred something about _getting lonely over here, sweetheart_ , and Dean had snapped right the fuck back to attention, all thoughts of Sam: banished.

Mostly.

But fuck, it was only for a second [maybe two], only that one time [uh huh], and surely that wasn't enough, couldn't have given the fucking spell enough to go on, enough to whip out this whole elaborate floorshow of Sammy and his perpetually turned-on dick.

But that was bullshit. He was lying to himself and he knew it and the goddamn spell was making that crystal-fucking-clear, wasn't it?

He felt sick.

“You still there?” Bobby asked, Dean drifting back into the range of his voice.

“Oh fuck,” he blurted. “So I did this to Sam? You mean he wouldn't be, if I hadn't—?”

“No, the spell is doing this, Dean. Whoever you pissed off enough to hex on you, that’s who’s doing this.”

“Oh fuck,” Dean said again, the rush of guilt like a fist in his gut.

Bobby sighed.

“You wanna know how to break it, or woulda rather keep self-flagellating? ‘Cause I'm pretty sure that's Sam's department these days.”

“Really not that fucking funny right now, Bobby.”

Bobby snorted. “Look. To break it, it's easy, son. All ya gotta do is prove the spell wrong. Take away its ammo. Show it you're not sick of it all, of Sam. That this weirdness isn't making you eight kinds of crazy.”

“And how am I supposed to do that, exactly?” Dean snapped, because easy? Easy?! What the fuck about any of this was _easy_?! “A card? Some skywriting? Maybe a poem?”

“You'regonnahavetokisshim,” Bobby said, so fast that it took Dean’s brain a second to catch up.

Because, no. No. That was all kinds of wrong, getting exactly what he wanted in order to make things right.

Wasn’t it?

“Oh,” he said. Slow. “So. Kiss him so the spell thinks I'm groovy with Sam's...whatever.”

There was a very kind silence.

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “With his whatever.”

“Ok,” Dean said. “Ok.”

“I mean, if you can think of a faster way, you know, to prove it to him, to illustrate it, then by all means, do it. I'm just thinking that a kiss is a pretty straightforward way to address it, is all.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah. Ok. Ok, Bobby.”

“So,” Bobby sighed, and Dean could’ve sworn he was smiling. “You go make out with your brother and give me a call when you're done.”

Dean couldn't even manage a sputter before the line went dead.

***

So: answer provided. Weapon prepared. Chapstick applied. Now all Dean had to do was—

Do it.

Kiss Sam. Just lay one on him in the middle of where-the-fuck-ever they were, somewhere south of Charleston, and, bam. Spell would be busted, Sam’s fist could take a vacation, and everything would be back to normal in their own little corner of crazy.

He thought about doing it when he went back inside, right then, grabbing Sam by the collar and turning his head and sinking his tongue all the way down, right where it wanted to be, Sam's hands coming up to find his face, that dirty moan lost in the back of Dean's throat.

But.

When he went in, Sam was chatting with this woman and her kid who were sitting in the booth behind, all friendly and Boy Scout-like, and all the hot in that scenario went right out the window.

Not really an appropriate moment for gay incestuous smooching.

Then he thought: Ok. In the car.

But Sam snagged the keys from his pocket on the way out of the diner, patted Dean on the head with a sweet-ass smile, and told him to get some rest.

"Let me take care of you, man," he said. "Seriously. Relax." 

And there was something so sincere about that, something so very Sam, slap-happy or not, that Dean let himself give in. He leaned into the passenger door, his head on the glass, and pretended he was calm enough for a nap with five cups of coffee in his blood and his lips kind of anxious to get on with the program.

But no. Timing wasn't right. Not yet.

So. He took advantage of the situation. 

He lay back and watched Sam’s hands. His fingers skating over the wheel, tapping in time to the radio, stretching out over the seat.

Watched Sam lean back, stretch out his spine and yawn. Traced the lines of his neck, his arms, his legs as he shifted, bounced around in the seat and clicked his tongue at other drivers, at the tractor trailers that flew past and the minivans that didn’t.

Dean let his brain fill up with Sam in a way he’d never done before. Stopped fighting the flood of Sammy in which he always swam, the current he’d never stopped working against. Let it carry him away.

Sam's eyes. His stupid laugh. The dumb way he mouthed along with his Genesis tape so he wouldn’t wake Dean, his whispers just as out of tune as his voice.

The slow-ass way he pumped gas, deliberate and careful with her cap and the pump like he was afraid he’d hurt her, somehow. Like she was worth protecting.

The way he smiled when the sun got in his eyes, because the boy refused to wear sunglasses for reasons that Dean could never remember but damn, he was consistent, even when the light was blinding, even when it coated him in this searing white that made Dean’s head hurt just to look at, this like ethereal, grounded thing on the other side of the car that he knew, he just fucking knew, wasn’t always gonna be there, was gonna leave him one day, would leave with his good wishes, too, with a slap on the back and words that Dean didn’t really mean ringing in his ears: _want you to be happy, Sammy. Gotta do what you gotta do. This was never supposed to be your life. You never got to choose. You should go._

_I’m happy for you._

_I want you to leave._

_I love you_.

And that’s when it hit him, hard. So hard he heard the metal crunch, his bones screech with the impact.

Sam was gonna leave him, one day. It might be for love or to avoid death or they might just get sick of each other, but it was inevitable. Destiny, or some stupid shit like that. And that was the perpetual cloud on the horizon, the storm that was always about to break, in his life. The thunder he could always hear in the distance, a sound that never went away no matter how loud the music, the screams, or the beat of his own fucking heart.

So ok, then. Dean was nothing if not a risk-taker. An innovator. A man with his own kind of plan.

What exactly did he have to lose here?

He could kiss Sam, kiss him and fix him and free him all in one go. 

But if this was it—his one shot at this weird thing he hadn’t known he’d always wanted, until Sam and the spell and Sam gave him no other fucking choice—why stop with a kiss?

It made him feel a little giddy, thinking that. Maybe even a little free himself.

He took a deep breath and sat up. Pretended to stretch.

“Hey!” Sam said. Still fluffy bunny cheerful. "Hi. I thought you were gonna sleep all day, man.”

“Nah,” Dean said. “I was just a little beat, I guess.”

Sam grinned. “Yeah, sure,” he said.

“We there yet?”

Sam looked sheepish. “Not yet. Got a couple hundred miles to go.”

And Dean launched into his standard “Why the fuck do I ever let you drive”? outrage, Sam countered with his “Not everyone drives like an asshole like you” defense, and the afternoon slid back towards normal. Followed the script of a hundred other days, hell, of practically their whole lives, their dialogue ground down into the grooves of the road, the words falling out easy, like breathing, and Dean was so freaking it happy it chased away his lingering doubt, the feeling that he was gonna get creative as hell and maybe it would all go to shit, maybe Sam would freak out and all of this would go away, would dissolve into the ether, so he’d better stop being a bitch about it and just go with the flow. Enjoy it, enjoy Sam, while he was here.

And so he did.

***

Which was awesome, until they checked in to some scrubby motel after dinner. Someplace close enough to the beach to smell like sand, to have salt tucked into the doorframe and palm fronds caught in the shutters.

Sam keyed in, dragging his bag and yawning like a cat.

Dean dragged ass behind, bravado falling out of his pockets and clattering down the fucking sidewalk.

Shit. Seemed so easy in the abstract, innovation. All he had to do was slam Sam against the wall and go for his zipper and—

But now, in the yellow light and the faded wallpaper and the everyday normal of it all, it felt—weird. Dean did.

So he just watched as Sam stripped off and staggered into the bathroom, and a moment later the roar of the shower was pounding in his ears like he was holding a fucking seashell to his head.

He tried to tell himself it was for Sam's own good, whatever it was he was gonna do. To break the spell, defuse the loaded weapon that was Sam’s dick.

_Just go in there and get it the fuck over with_ , he told himself, his feet carbonited to the damn carpet. _Just lay one on him, hold his face in your hands and lick your way over his lips, stroke his jaw and get him to open for you, to let you suck his tongue between your teeth until he groans, he_ —

And then Sam groaned, his voice rolling under the sound of the water. A noise Dean could feel in his teeth, in his hands. His cock.

And ok. Ok.

His brain took five and his body took over, unbuckling his belt, kicking off his boots, peeling away the denim, his t-shirt, his boxers. His fingers found the knob and he walked in, someplace out past autopilot. Sam let out another one as he walked in, long and ragged and deep, and he must not have heard the door because he jumped when Dean tugged back the curtain, stepped over the tub like he knew what in the fuck he was doing and folded his hand over Sam's own.

“Let me,” he heard himself say, and it was cheesy as hell and not at all like it should be [however that was], but his hand was on Sam’s cock and Sam was leaning into him and gasping and that was all that mattered, right then.

“Dean,” Sam breathed in his ear. “ _Dean_.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, feeling his voice shake. “Yeah, I know.”

He curled his free hand around Sam’s hip and pitched himself in, his fingers sliding and stroking and knocking Sam's away.

Sam muttered something into his hair, the water shooting every which way around them, his cock scorching Dean’s skin.

“Yeah,” Dean said again, tucking his lips into Sam’s throat.

“No,” Sam hissed, and Dean found his face trapped in two giant paws and then Sam was kissing him, and ok, that was definitely backwards, he was supposed to be the one doing the kissing but six of one, half a dozen of the other, man, especially with the noises Sam was making around his tongue, these long sweet growls that—

That—

Made Dean sort of forget what he was supposed to be doing, and why, where his hands were, what his fucking name was, practically.

Everything got sorta hazy until his ass hit the tile, his shoulders banged into the wall, and Sam climbed over him like he was a freaking jungle gym or something, demanding as hell, his fingers on Dean's neck, pulling his head back so Sam could drive his tongue in like a fucking piston, which ok, hello, fantastic.

Dean let himself relax, let his body go clay in Sam's hands, let himself be remade, undone by Sam's voice between kisses, by this jumble of “ _fuck_ , Dean,” and “yes” and “want you, god, Dean, want you to—” and Dean just said yes, yes to everything, to whatever, to Sam.

And it was awkward, crowded and a little cold and boxy as hell, but Dean didn't realize that until later, until he thought about how it should have been all kinds of uncomfortable instead of how it was: hot and fumbling and amazing. Because, fuck, it was Sam who was touching him, Sam who got a hand between them and grabbed Dean's cock like it was the best thing he'd ever laid eyes on, who jerked him slow and steady, his thumb running over the head as he groaned in Dean's ear.

“Dean. Dean. Gonna fuck you, Dean. Gonna stretch you out and make you take my cock, baby, is that good? That's what you want, huh? You want me to fuck you?”

Dean heard this weird noise, like a banshee let out of her bottle, and oh. Oh hey. That was him.

Sam bit his ear and started moving slower, the bastard, made Dean buck his hips and chase his hand.

“Yeah,” Sam breathed. “Like that. Come on, Dean. Come on.”

He tugged Dean's hair until Dean’s head cracked the tile and shoved his mouth down, pushing past Dean's lips, his teeth, and then.

Finally. Jesus.

Sped his hand up to match his tongue, tugging hard and fucking fast until Dean was underwater, Sam surrounding him, holding him, controlling him, hellbent on tearing him to pieces.

And Dean was all in favor.

Then Sam shifted, all of a sudden, shoved his knee between Dean's legs, his cock sliding over Dean's thigh and ok. Every man has his limits.

Can only hold their breath for so long.

Time to come up for air.

And everything Dean had been holding back without knowing, it all fell out in a rush, his come shooting between them, his mouth flying away from Sam's.

“Love you. Love you. Love you,” he moaned, and it was girly to say it, maybe even to think it, but it had never sounded better than it did bouncing off those grimy walls, filling up that small space and falling in his ears. And the best part, he knew. Was that Sam could hear it, too.

Sam made little pleased noises against his cheek and rubbed himself into Dean's hip and oh right. Yeah. There was that.

Dean reached down, ran his fingers over that dark, wet head, and holy crap was Sam hot, got to rutting as soon as Dean touched him. 

And Dean had this flash of falling to his knees, turning his tongue over the shaft, teasing the slit with his teeth, of watching Sam's face as he came—without any shame, this time—but then Sam whined and kicked his hips and Dean knew he wasn't gonna last, Mr. Walking Spank Bank, so he said:

“Yeah, Sammy. You like that, huh? You think about it being my hand on you, baby? When you were jerking off? You wish it was me touching you?”

Because two could play at that game. And fuck if Dean was gonna cede his sex god status to Sam without a fight.

“God!” and “yes” and “all the time!” Sam panted, his body going to hell, his muscles tensing, his head shaking.

“Yeah,” Dean purred. “Knew you did.” He dropped his other hand, gave up his perch on Sam's hip and reached for his balls. “Knew you thought about my hand, like this”—he squeezed and Sam keened—“my fingers trying to hold you, all of you. God, you're so fucking big, Sammy, don't know that I can fit all of you in my mouth, baby, you're gonna have to push so fucking hard, make me take it all, make me—“

And Sam snapped like a freaking twig.

“ _Dean_ ,” he hissed, and damn if that wasn’t like music, to Dean. Sam's cock jerked and he shot a hot, long spurt over Dean's hand, over their bellies, groaning as Dean held him and whispered: “Yes, baby, just like that. Yeah, Sammy. It's ok. I've got you.”

“Dude,” Sam said, after a minute. “I think there's mutual getting here.”

Dean laughed, tried to pull his forehead from its new home in Sam's chest. And failed. “Point,” he admitted. “Now. Who's gonna move first? The water is fucking freezing.”

“Hey!” Sam said, slurry. “You're not the one with your back to the spray, jackass. If anybody's freezing here, it's me. You got me as a human shield.”

“Fine. Move your ass, human shield.”

“...in a minute,” Sam said.

They staggered out, the A/C like ice, and rolled up in the blankets, shivering, still damp, and Dean fell sleep with Sam curled around him, his breath steady and full in his ear.

***

And of course, it all made sense to Sam.

“Oh,” he said from under the pillows. “A níos mó ná, huh? Sure.”

Dean sat up a little to let the kid breathe.

“You’ve heard of these things?” he said. 

“Well, yeah,” Sam said, fighting back his bangs. “Spells of excess. They’re also know as _overskydende_. Really popular in Europe during the Middle Ages among the—“

“Ok! Ok!” Dean barked. “Let’s not go down this road again, man.”

Sam grinned up at him, those dark eyes shining, and that was kind of great and so they sorta stopped talking, for a while. After that.

But apparently Sam’s brain never stopped working, no matter what his body was doing, where his mouth was. Because as soon as they were both back to conscious, he said: “I told you we should have gone someplace else to eat.”

And Dean was willing to overlook the non-sequitur because Sam was both naked and horizontal and that made a lot of sins forgivable, in Dean's book.

But it was also kind of—distracting.

“Hmm?” Dean managed, flicking his tongue over Sam's ear. Thought about trying his teeth. 

“The—hey!” Sam squawked. “That barbecue place. The one near Raleigh. You said I went all cow-crazy right after we left that town, right?”

“Hmm,” Dean said. “Yeah.”

He could feel Sam gesturing over his head. “Well, then. Think about it. You insisted on eating there twice a day for four days—“

“Three!”

“Three days in a row, and fuck, Dean, you must have eaten half their stock, practically.”

“What?” Dean said, pitching up to glare. “I did not!”

“Dude,” Sam said. “You ate like four baskets of hush puppies that one night.”

“Yeah, but they were awesome, Sam, like golden battered delicious perfection. In a ball.”

“And you ordered two pieces of peach cobbler at lunch and dinner. For three fucking days!”

“Again: that cobbler was awesome. Even you said it was good!”

“Yeah, maybe one piece of it in a week. Not 12 in 72 hours! Man, no wonder that witch picked you up.”

Sam stopped, got his "I'm fucking Sherlock Holmes" face on, followed by a big, wolfish grin.

“Wait. See? That's gotta be it! Somebody at that restaurant tagged you. Ha! And I bet I know who, too.”

Dean’s head lit up with a scowling crown of grey hair, southern sweetness, and a long string of fake pearls.

“...Alva,” he said glumly.

Sam cackled.

“Alva! You must have pissed that poor woman off good.”

“Oh, man,” Dean moaned, shoving his head under the pillows. “Come on.”

But Sam was on a roll.

“How many extra trips to the kitchen did you cost her? I mean, for sweet tea refills alone, that must have been like an extra mile she had to walk a day.”

“Dude, those were free refills.”

“And the wife of that guy—remember Mr. B&E? The one who was stealing road maps from people’s cars? She must have really pissed Alva off to get her husband zapped liked that. He was a councilman, right? Or an alderman?” Sam laughed again. “Man, Alva doesn't play, Dean. You picked with wrong week to eat like a freaking warhorse. To embrace your inner glutton.”

“Shut up,” Dean muttered. “I so do not need a lecture in etiquette from you, Slappy.”

“Hey,” Sam said. “I've had a great week. I learned all this Jeopardy level shit about cows, I jerked off like a mad man—which was awesome, by the way—and I got you.” He gave Dean a soft little smile that may have made Dean’s heart do a creaky forward roll. “So all in all: I give this week a win.”

“This mean the spell's broken?” Dean said, without saying: _you sure about this, Sammy? This really you_?

Sam tugged him up and caught Dean’s face in his hands, his smile saying: _I’m sure_.

“Yeah, it’s broken,” he said. “Busted.”

Dean let his eyes fall south. “So you're not gonna be whipping that thing out in public anymore, right?”

Sam made this amazing noise and rolled, parked his freaking giant limbs over Dean’s body and grinned down into his face.

“No,” he said. “Only in front of you, Dean.”

Dean bit his lip to keep from humiliating himself. Almost succeeded.

“Um,” he managed. “Ok. That sounds—good.”

Sam laughed, this dirty chuckle, and kicked his hips, licked Dean's lips, and said:

“Yeah it does.”

Dean Winchester considered himself a problem solver. A creative thinker.

And ok, maybe he’d gotten himself into trouble without even knowing how. Without even meaning to, this time. Kinda different than running into battle with guns blazing or salt swinging or Latin on his lips, but hey.

It was the end result that mattered, sure. Spell: busted. Sam: saved. But it never hurt to get there with some style. Some panache. A shot of innovation.

So he had, this time, with a touch that said: Dean Winchester was here, you beautiful witchy fuck, and he thanks you for this unintentional gift. For Sam.

“Dude,” Sam said, taking his mouth away from this really awesome place on Dean’s thigh. “Did you just call me ‘hushpuppy’?”

“Maybe,” Dean breathed. Not really sure.

Sam grinned. “You say a word about barbecue sauce and I’m never going down on you again.”

“Fine. Whatever. Fine,” Dean panted, trying to shove Sam’s head back where it belonged. “Shut up already.”

Sam snuffled into his skin, his fingers in Dean’s hip, and yeah. 

Something to be said for taking a risk.


End file.
